


honeysuckle

by scarsimp



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Gen, Winter At Kaer Morhen, got tired of seeing fics where lambert is always an asshole, he needs and deserves it, reading a book and relaxing for once, so I wrote this, uhhh, where hes just
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:54:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25664713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarsimp/pseuds/scarsimp
Summary: If Lambert strained he'd be able to hear Eskel talking about something or other, or Vesemir's complaining, but for the most part it was like a thick fog had fallen over the keep, sleepily rolling and subduing everything disruptive for but a moment.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	honeysuckle

**Author's Note:**

> Hi this is written for the games n books... not the show. Sorry,, but it's just Lambert vibing! He gets caricatured as this giant asshole feral man all the time and I'm just on the corner watching like... who did this, why

There was a small nook in Kaer Morhen, insubstantial compared to the rest of the gargantuan fortress and just as forgotten as the inner bowels of it. It was small and somewhat cramped, with shakily plastered stone that Lambert had added to the wall however-many-years-ago when it had finally begun letting frigid winter air in, and a window that might rightfully be older than Lamber himself. Or Vesemir, for that matter.

The glass was clouded from age and creaked ominously whenever he put too much pressure on it, but the metal bearing stayed steady through the months and whenever Winter rolled around he'd always find himself right back up here— hiding from the rest of the lot or from himself or Vesemir, it changed with the days just like his mood. Sometimes he simply needed the quiet, and that was enough of an explanation as any. 

Winter was rather sparing this year, as sparing as it could be this elevated in the mountains— and Lambert had taken to the small space once again, relaxing as best he could with the looming presence of future building and cooking through the months. He had snagged an ancient book on his way up, something on alchemy and herbology with pages that creaked between his calloused fingers and a spine that smelled faintly of pollen and dust. It wasn't even a good read, really, but it was dry enough that he needed to pay attention to the wording and the inked sketches of each plant were accurate enough. 

The witcher was curled faintly as he skimmed through it, idly glancing over the art and looping cursive, elbows on his knees and shoulders pressed against one of the chilled walls supporting the small space. The first few pages were rambles on adventure and forests filled with mushrooms and plants alike, and they were hardly worth the effort of reading if Lambert had not been aiming for time to pass with something absorbing. The crackle of the yellowed page was almost obscene as he turned it, the leathered cover and thick stitching complaining threateningly as he shifted to hold the jargon better. This chapter seemed to cover the basics. 

He traced a nail over the indention of where a quill had pressed too hard, threatening to rip the thin parchment and bleed ink everywhere. if Lambert closed his eyes and pondered for a moment he could almost remember doing the same, years and years ago. The moments were clouded in a haze of thick sunlight and cloying chemicals, but the phantom sensation of a quill tickling his palm and the scratch of the point was still reachable. Studying over the same species, if he was correct. He snorted half-heartedly and turned the page—blowball was as common as it came and he was fairly certain he could recite the recipes it was in from heart. 

Lambert had always had a small pique for alchemy, it made more sense to him than the rest when the world broke down to it. Eskel had his absurdly strong spells and Geralt had his— whatever he had, but alchemy had never quite failed Lambert. You mixed together celandine with drowner bits and some spirit, you got swallow. Nothing would change that beyond changing the recipe, which would yield a different recipe altogether. It simply made sense. Adding and subtracting, giving and taking, change and keep. Signs might fizz out on you at the worst moment possible, but bombs would stay burning as long as you weren't blastedly stupid and kept recent ingredients on hand. 

The next page was a modest dissection of honeysuckle, and the witcher resisted the urge to roll his eyes when he realized the author had somehow managed to spiel on for several paragraphs about the same plant. 

Maybe the book he had chosen was a bit too dry for his tastes. 

Lambert closed it with an exasperated sigh, running a hand across his face and leaning back slightly, stretching his knees and stroking a thumb over the scar dissecting his brow. The muted sunlight that managed through the window shone against him, and he sat there quietly for a moment, enjoying the quiet of his own breathing and nothing else. If he strained he'd be able to hear Eskel talking about something or other, or Vesemir's complaining, but for the most part it was like a thick fog had fallen over the keep, sleepily rolling and subduing everything disruptive for but a moment. 

He stretched his arms above his head, unbothered by the creak of his old jerkin and merely rolling his shoulder when an angry scar made itself known. The sunlight was relaxing, and with the thick fabrics he was wearing the cold wasn't horrible for once either. Lambert's head wasn't pounding from the constant noise and drum of the world around him and settled back with a sigh, crossing his arms back round his chest and feeling his heartbeat placidly against the palm of one hand. 

It was nice, if only for a moment.


End file.
